


drop dead twice

by sunbrights



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder Mystery, abusive elements not related to tagged pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbrights/pseuds/sunbrights
Summary: It’s a Saturday in mid-September. The morning is warm, unseasonably so for the time of year, and it continues on that way through lunch. She’ll remember that every time it replays in her mind, later.





	drop dead twice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewildwilds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/gifts).



> Inspired by @thewildwilds' [1950s Murder AU](http://thewildwilds.tumblr.com/tagged/1950s-murder-couple-au) which is the perfect blend of cute and spooky!! I'd recommend reading her fic [Kiss Kiss, Kill Kill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13726089) to get the full context of this one, if you haven't yet. (And also just because it's an EXCELLENT read.)

The Kuzuryuus don’t have any children. It doesn’t seem like it at first glance, at least; Sachiko ties back the curtain in the living room to peek out into the cul-de-sac when they start unloading the moving truck, and there’s not a crib or toy or playpen in sight.

There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. Everyone has their own struggles in life, and Sachiko would never pretend to know someone else’s. It’s _interesting,_ that’s all. The lady of the house is still young, even if she looks quite a bit older than Suzume down the street, who’s already heavy with her first. There’s time.

The wife is inspecting the flower beds at the front of the house. There used to be a few lovely kerria shrubs up by the steps, but Yumi, the woman who lived there before, had a notoriously brown thumb. The shrubs are shriveled and bare now, the last of their remaining leaves scattered on the ground beneath them.

This one is more focused on the soil than the plants. That’s a good sign. Their house takes up so much of the view from Sachiko’s front window; it would be nice to have something well-groomed to look at again.

The husband comes around from the back. He has an open box in his arms, filled with gardening tools; Sachiko can make out the pointed end of a trowel, the claws of a hand rake, and the blades of a short pair of shears. They’re prepared. That’s an even better sign.

He sets the box down in the grass next to the flower bed, and his wife looks up at him, smiling. Even before she stands up, Sachiko can tell that she must be a fair amount taller than him. But he still lets her wear shoes with heels that high?

(There’s nothing _wrong_ with it. It’s just interesting.)

She kisses his cheek. He takes her hand. They chat, there in the yard, while the movers finish bringing the rest of their things into the house. Sachiko could mistake them for newlyweds, if she hadn’t heard better from the real estate agent; they share space, and smile wide, and can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other. 

“How long till supper?” Hisao calls behind her. “I’m starving.”

She pulls herself away from the window.

*

The wife’s name is Peko. Her husband is Fuyuhiko. Sachiko has to get their names from the girl at the front desk of the country club; they’re both so elusive that whole first week, it’s almost like no one moved into the house at all. 

She bakes them up a blueberry pie. There’s nothing quite like blueberries in the summer, hand-delivered to your doorstep. It’s only the neighborly thing to do, and it gives her the chance to introduce herself first. 

“Oh,” Peko says, when she answers the door. Her smile is mild. “Hello.”

Sachiko can see a sliver of the house past her shoulder. There’s a vase of white daisies on a hall table, and a collage of wedding photos on the back wall of the foyer. The pair of them aren’t looking at the camera in any of the photos; they’re looking at each other, beaming, arms twined together.

“Afternoon!” Sachiko says. “I’m Sachiko Murasaki. Your neighbor from across the way?” She tilts her shoulders back to point across the cul-de-sac, with her hands full. “I thought I should introduce myself, welcome you to the neighborhood… It isn’t too often we get new faces!”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Peko takes the pie plate, and sets it down on the table beside the vase. “I’m sure Fuyuhiko will be delighted.”

Sachiko cranes her neck to try and see beyond the door; the best she can catch a glimpse of is a wall of tall bookcases in the other room. “Where _is_ your mister?” she asks. “I was hoping I might catch you both!”

“Out, unfortunately,” Peko says, and sets one melancholy hand against her cheek. “He’s had such busy nights at the office lately. That time of year, you know how it is.”

It’s the middle of summer, lazy and sweltering. “Of course,” Sachiko says anyway. “... What does your husband do, again?”

“He’s a consultant,” Peko answers, and then says, without an ounce of shame or irony, “and I work as an administrative assistant.”

Sachiko tries to contain her reaction. She does. She considers herself a polite woman. But some things just slip out. “ _Oh,_ ” she says. “I see.” 

It explains why she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of either of them all week. It explains why they’ve been slow to start their family. There’s nothing wrong with it; there are more and more families like that, doing what they can to make ends meet. It’s just interesting, that’s all.

(Still, she wonders how _he’d_ react, having the weakness of his salary aired out for the neighborhood like this. It’s not her business, though. Whatever happens behind closed doors in a marriage is between a husband and his wife.)

“Well,” she says, “if you’re ever feeling lonely, the girls and I have little get-togethers in the afternoons most days. You’re always welcome to join us.” She lets her lips purse, and adds delicately, “Whenever you have the time, of course.”

Peko smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I’d love to.” 

*

The two of them fit right in. Peko comes to visit with the rest of the girls when she can, usually at least once a week. She always brings fresh baked cookies or brownies or pie along with her, always enough to share, and always made to perfection. She has a natural hand for tennis, and she encourages the rest of them to start a book club.

Word is that her husband has started to make appearances, too; Suzume says she saw them together once at the country club restaurant, and even Hisao mentions seeing a new face at the driving range. 

“That’s nice,” Sachiko says. “I know you were looking for a fourth.” She sets his supper on the table in front of him, and leans back to call up the staircase: “Minoru! Time to eat!”

“Well,” Hisao says, already cutting his chicken into pieces, “we’ll see if he’s any good, first.”

*

She doesn’t officially meet Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu until their house warming a month and a half later. He answers the door with his wife, one hand curled around her waist and the other nursing a wide-mouthed glass of bourbon. They’re picture-perfect, together like that.

“Not gonna bore you with small talk,” Fuyuhiko says, and it turns out he’s a forthright sort of man, with sharp eyes and a confident manner. “We’ll have a quick tour here in a minute or two, and then we’ll get to food and drinks after. My wife’s got some stuffed mushrooms out there today that are _killer,_ and I’d be a fool to keep you from them.”

Minoru makes a quiet gagging sound. “Hush,” Hisao snaps, and Minoru turns his face into the back of her skirt. 

The Kuzuryuus only smile at each other. “Not a fan, huh, kiddo?” Fuyuhiko says. “Tell you what. You stick it out through the boring part, and you and me’ll fire up the grill after, how’s that?”

It’s a kind offer. It helps break Minoru out of his shell; he pokes his head out from behind her leg and nods, just a little, just enough. Even still, Sachiko wishes he hadn’t said it.

Beside her, Hisao has gone stiff as stone.

*

The house is lovely. Peko has really brought life back to the garden; there are new lilac shrubs framing the front patio, and the soil at the base of the fence is freshly turned and ready for planting. Her kitchen is nothing less than comprehensive, with gleaming copper cookware hanging on a rack and a block of high-quality knives on the counter.

(“I can’t recommend them more,” Peko says. “Perfect for getting through bits of tough fat. I even have an extra set for special occasions.”)

Their den doubles as a small library; the bookcases Sachiko had seen the first day turn out to be only some of many. They have simple, tasteful furniture in muted colors. The floors are polished cherry hardwood downstairs, and beautiful cream carpet upstairs.

(“You wouldn’t believe it,” Fuyuhiko laughs, “but I ruined these carpets the very first week we moved in. The first week! You’d never be able to tell now, though, right? I’d be a mess without this woman, let me tell you.”)

They spill out into the backyard just as the sun is starting to set. Peko has laid out platters of appetizers and tall pitchers of tea and lemonade across a few fold-out plastic tables. As promised, Fuyuhiko flips open the red lid of his grill and finds an apron to tie over his dress shirt. The boys of the neighborhood crowd around him to watch, Minoru included.

It’s fine, she tells herself. It’s a group activity. When she checks, even Hisao is distracted, caught up in conversation with Kei from down the street. 

She shouldn’t have had the glass of wine, maybe. She lets herself relax too much. She isn’t paying as close attention as she should. She spends too much time chatting with Suzume, and when she looks again, the other boys are gone. 

Fuyuhiko has crouched down to Minoru’s level, his glass balanced on one knee. They’re too far away and speaking too quietly for her to hear what they’re talking about, but at one point, Minoru rubs his palm against his right eye. Fuyuhiko lifts one hand to his own forehead, drawing a curve around his eye socket with his fingers.

Sachiko checks. Hisao is staring at them.

“Minoru,” she calls. She picks up her skirt to cross the grass in bigger steps. “Leave Mr. Kuzuryuu alone. I’m sure he’s busy tonight.”

“It’s fine,” Fuyuhiko says, pressing himself up to standing. His mouth is smiling, but his eyes are flat. “He was telling me about his ball game. The one where he, uh,” he clucks his tongue, and flicks a finger against his own temple, “had a run-in with a fly ball, he says.”

Minoru shoves his face against her hip. The bruise above his eye has gone yellow and green, almost healed but not yet gone. The rest of the neighborhood knows to just ignore them, but the Kuzuryuus are still settling in.

“Yes,” she answers. “It’s a step up from teeball this year, so it’s been an adjustment. Right, Minoru?”

He doesn’t say anything. She bends down to hoist him into her arms.

Fuyuhiko hums. His jaw is tight. “I see,” he says. “Gotta keep your hands up, kiddo. Eye on the ball at all times, no matter what.”

Minoru doesn’t say anything. Sachiko rubs her hand in slow circles on his back. “He’s had a long day,” she explains. “Excuse us.”

Fuyuhiko takes a long sip from his glass. “Sure.”

She doesn’t have a plan, only a next step. The back of her neck is burning, and she focuses on getting Minoru back to the throng of children, who are now sitting in a circle on the back porch playing pick up sticks.

Hisao catches her before she’s even made it to the steps.

“Let me take him,” he says.

“It’s fine,” she tries. “Fuyuhiko was only—”

“He’s tired,” Hisao insists. He’s already shoving his hand between her ribs and Minoru’s hip. “Aren’t you, champ?”

Minoru doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twist tight enough in the collar of her blouse to pull it taut against her neck. His nails drag against her skin when Hisao tugs him out of her arms.

“I’ll go with you,” she says. “Just let me—”

“No,” he answers, too crisply to be misunderstood. He’s already leaving, and Sachiko’s heart feels like it might beat out of her chest. “Stay and have fun with your friends.”

*

She locks herself in the hall bathroom and sits on the lid of the toilet until she’s able to get herself together. It takes time. It takes a long time. It’s her own fault; if she weren’t such a mess, she’d be able to multitask better.

Through the wall, she can hear the glass doors to the patio slide open and closed. There are quick, heeled footsteps on the kitchen tile. Peko has been an impeccable hostess all night, keeping plates and cups all but constantly topped off; Sachiko has no idea how she does it.

“Will you get the extra platter out for me?” she asks someone. “With the lilies on it.” There’s a clatter of ceramic in cabinets, and then she says, “Thank you.”

“Can I help?” the someone asks, and it surprises Sachiko less than it should to find the voice is Fuyuhiko’s.

She can hear Peko’s smile. “Of course.”

When Sachiko opens the bathroom door, she has a partial view into the northern end of the kitchen. Peko and Fuyuhiko stand at the counter together, elbow-to-elbow, sharing a cutting board, slicing through fruits and veggies for the platter.

“You can tell which are mine and which are yours,” she hears Fuyuhiko say, and he doesn’t sound annoyed, only resigned. “Never gonna be able to measure up to you.”

“You’ve gotten better,” Peko answers. She steps behind him and wraps her arms around him, her hands curled loosely over his. “You just need to learn the gradient of the blade.” They chop together, three quick strikes against the cutting board. “See? Like that.”

“ _That_ was all you,” he says.

“That was us together.”

They’re like high school sweethearts. He tilts his head back, she ducks her chin down, and they give each other a sweet sweep of butterfly kisses. He noses into the crook of her neck until she laughs, and they must really not know they’re being watched, because then he kisses her there, quick and intimate.

“Stop,” she chides, and she’s smiling, giggling even, but he does. They move on from slicing the food to plating it.

Sachiko goes back out into the yard. 

*

Hisao used to love her like that. 

They went steady all through high school, and clamored to marry each other as soon as they were out of it. She remembers how he swept her into his arms on their wedding day, dress and all, and spun her until she was dizzy, red-faced and laughing— only the spinning made him dizzy, too, and when he went to put her back on her feet, the both of them fell sprawling into the grass. 

He’s in a terrible, black mood when she gets home. From the top of the stairs, she can see the silhouette of him sitting at the edge of their bed, his elbows on his knees. The lights are all off, and the door to Minoru’s bedroom is shut. 

“He’s sleeping,” he barks, when she goes to open it. “Leave him alone.”

She takes her hand off the handle. The only place left to go is into the bedroom.

“Never should have let you talk me into that,” he says, when she sits on the mattress beside him. He only just now bends to take off his shoes. “Kuzuryuu’s a smug son of a bitch. Makes me sick to be around him.”

“I’m sorry,” she answers. “I thought we could have a nice night with the neighbors.”

He grunts. His voice drips with contempt. “I know what _you_ wanted.”

She doesn’t know what he means. It makes it that much harder to defuse whatever it is. She tries to retrace her steps from the night, tries to find where she upset him. “I wanted a nice night with the neighbors,” she says again, because it’s true, and because it would be worse to say nothing at all.

“I saw you with him,” he accuses, and it takes her a moment to understand that _him_ must mean Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu. “Fawning over him like that. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed yourself.” He throws one of his shoes, not hard enough to hit anything, but hard enough to startle her. “In front of our _son._ ”

“I’m sorry,” she tries. She wants to put her hand on his shoulder, but she knows better now. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I promise you there’s nothing there.”

“Prove it,” he orders, and then his fist is tight in the front of her blouse.

She pulls her chin back before he can kiss her. “Stop.” She tugs on his hand, but he won’t let go. “Please.”

He doesn’t.

*

In the morning, she finds a fresh bruise on the right side of Minoru’s rib cage, fat and round, beneath his armpit. 

He winces when she pulls his shirt down over it.

*

Hisao cools off eventually. He always does. He even lets her go back over to the Kuzuryuus’ for book club meetings, after a month or so. 

So it’s fine for her to go over and help with a baking project, when Peko asks. Hisao is out on a business trip at the time, set to be home the night after, but she’s sure he wouldn’t mind even if he weren’t. 

It’s fine.

Fuyuhiko is in the yard. He waves at them when they come up the path, but ducks back into a shed at the rear of the garden before she can say hello. “It’s the most time off he’s had in weeks,” Peko explains. “He’s excited to get back to some personal projects, I can barely keep him in the house.”

She has a cake set out on a serving plate in the kitchen, as beautifully made as all the rest, with gleaming white vanilla frosting. There’s a slim slice cut out of it already, with just a single bite taken from it; Peko pulls down an extra plate from the cabinet and cuts another.

“I’d like a second opinion,” she says. “Please be honest.”

Sachiko takes a bite. It’s a lovely silver cake, light as a cloud and with a smooth texture; it’s the frosting that’s too heavy, sugary sweet and almost a step past decadent. She tells Peko so, as politely as she can manage, but Peko only smiles, pink in the cheeks like a lovestruck teenage girl.

“I’ll admit,” she says, “that’s part of the reason I asked for an outside opinion. I want this to be a treat for my husband, but I’m not one for sweetness myself.” She swipes at the top layer of frosting with the edge of her fork. “I worry that I’m not able to strike the right balance on my own.”

“Whip the frosting a bit longer and I think it would be perfect,” Sachiko suggests. “That way it’ll still be sweet without being so heavy.”

Peko nods. She fishes a pen from her apron pocket, and makes a note for herself on the fridge. “I’ll give it a try,” she says. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

A side door whines open on the other side of the house. Sachiko can hear Fuyuhiko knocking dirt from his shoes against the doorframe.

“Peko?”

Peko scoops the cake plate up with both hands, and elbows a nearby cabinet open to stash it away. “In the kitchen, dear,” she calls back.

He sticks his head around the corner, just in time to miss his surprise. He’s dressed more casually than Sachiko has ever seen him, in a soft linen button-down and pleated shorts. He must be working hard in the garden; he’s a bit smudged with dirt, and there’s a line of sweat across his brow.

“Have you seen my heavy-duty gardening gloves?” he asks Peko. “Gonna need to break out the big shears for this one, I think. Better safe than sorry.”

“I washed them,” she answers. “They’re hung up in the laundry room, over the sink.”

“You’re an angel.” He blows her a kiss, and it’s nearly silly, a noisy smack of lips. Peko’s smile curls her cheeks. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll let you girls get back to it.”

He ducks back around the corner. Sachiko can hear him whistling when he clatters down the stairs to the basement. 

“Please be careful not to make a mess,” Peko calls after him. “We have a guest!”

There’s no answer up the staircase. A moment or so later, he clatters back up. “I love you!” he shouts over his shoulder.

Peko sighs, but it’s smiling and endeared. “I love you, too,” she calls back, and the side door rattles shut behind him.

“That man.” She reaches for the refrigerator door. “Would you like a glass of ice tea while you’re here, Sachiko?”

She shouldn’t. She’s been gone long enough. She really should be focusing on keeping up the house, so that nothing is out of place when Hisao gets back.

“That sounds lovely,” she answers anyway.

Peko packs a tall glass with ice, presses a small wedge of lemon against the lip, and pours the tea. Sachiko watches it fill, the ice jumping and cracking. 

“Could I ask you something?” she hears herself say.

Peko only glances up from what she’s doing enough to acknowledge the question. “Of course.”

Sachiko’s breath comes in short. It’s a mistake to do this, but Hisao is coming home tomorrow night, and her heart is pounding, and she can’t seem to stop herself. “What’s your secret?”

She could just as easily be talking about the cake, or the tea. If Peko wanted to deflect the conversation, she could. But she doesn’t. She closes her eyes briefly, and pours a second glass of tea, this one for herself.

“There’s no secret,” she says. “We learned years ago that these things take patience and hard work. We support each other. We talk to each other. We’re partners, in everything we do.” She smiles, and sets Sachiko’s glass in front of her. “That’s all.”

Sachiko’s throat hurts. The tea doesn’t help.

“This may be too forward,” Peko goes on, after a moment, “but is everything alright at home, Sachiko?”

She doesn’t press, only asks. There’s no judgment in her eyes, only empathy. Sachiko prepares to lie, and can’t.

“Sometimes...” She swallows. Even a whisper feels too loud. “Sometimes I wish it would all just… stop.”

Peko leans back against the sink. The overhead light casts strangely over her face; it makes the lines of her brow look harsh.

“Yes,” she answers. “I know what you mean.”

*

It’s a Saturday in mid-September. The morning is warm, unseasonably so for the time of year, and it continues on that way through lunch. She’ll remember that every time it replays in her mind, later.

The bell rings, and when she goes to answer it, Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu is on her doorstep. 

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Your husband in?”

“Yes,” she answers. When she checks, Hisao has his back to her, just getting up from the counter with the paper tucked under his arm. “... Did you need something?”

“We’re supposed to go hit a few holes with the boys this afternoon,” Fuyuhiko explains, “but the missus needs the car today.” He tilts his head towards their garage. “Your husband offered me a ride in.”

She checks again. Hisao has taken an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, and is crossing toward the door in long, deliberate strides.

“You didn’t tell me you were going out,” Sachiko says.

“I don’t have to,” he answers.

She’ll remember later that he looked unhappy, angry even. It seemed like a favor he didn’t want to do. She doesn’t know why he agreed. Later, she thinks of a hundred questions she could have asked in that moment that she didn’t, because the reprieve of a quiet afternoon was too much to let go by.

His clubs are already in the trunk of the car. Fuyuhiko has his over his shoulder. Hisao brushes past her without even looking back. “I’ll be home for supper,” he says. “We all need some time away from nagging wives. Isn’t that right, Kuzuryuu?”

“Hah,” she hears Fuyuhiko answer, before the door shuts behind them. “Sure.”

*

The day is beautiful. She opens all the windows in the kitchen, and bakes a pecan pie as a surprise for Minoru when he gets home from his playdate.

Later, she’ll think it felt strange.

*

She ties back the curtains in the living room, when it’s clear the weather will stay nice. She has a full view of the street, all day. Later, she’ll only think of it as blocks of time, carved out between events.

Minoru comes home around four. She cuts him a skinny slice of pie, and sends him upstairs to wait for supper.

An hour later, Kei from down the street circles the cul-de-sac before pulling up to park by the curb outside his house, the way he always does.

Fifteen minutes after that, Seiji Arata next door pulls into his driveway. 

At six, Sachiko has supper on the table— roasted chicken and greens. Hisao is late, so she and Minoru eat on their own.

While they’re eating, the Kuzuryuus’ rust-red hatchback pulls into their driveway with the both of them in it. They get out together, and start to unload tall bags of groceries together. Peko must have shopped for the month; there are a lot of groceries, and most of them are double-bagged.

(Later, she’ll think that the time gap is strange. If all four men left the country club at the same time, why is it that the Kuzuryuus arrive back home almost an hour later than the rest? She’ll think about it over, and over, and over, and—) 

The sun goes down. Sachiko packs up leftovers and leaves them on the counter with a note for Hisao, in case he gets home late. She sends Minoru to bed.

At ten o’clock, she goes to sleep alone.

*

Hisao never comes home from the golf course.

*

In the morning, she goes downstairs to make Minoru a batch of big, golden pancakes for breakfast. She lets him slather on as much syrup as he wants, and even dots a few of the last batch with chocolate chips. It gets him to smile. The bruise over his eye is almost completely gone.

Then she goes upstairs, sits on the edge of the bed, and calls the police.

*

They find his car abandoned on the freeway not four days later, twenty miles clear past the country club, like he was driving into town. It’s clean, they say. There are no signs of a struggle. His things are missing from the center console. Like he picked up and left, they say.

They ask her if it’s possible her husband doesn’t want to be found.

“He wouldn’t do that,” she tells them, and one of the officers doesn’t even bother to hide how he rolls his eyes.

*

The first bill comes in the mail a week after that. It takes her days to figure out how to check the balance on the account. The bank refuses to give her a checkbook in her name without her husband available to authorize it. Her father offers to take her to open an account of her own, but she isn’t ready to call herself a widow. Not yet.

(She warms to the idea a few days later, after three more bills come in the mail, but the bank agrees with her. “Missing isn’t dead,” says the man behind the desk, and he sends her on her way.)

*

The police canvas the neighborhood. Sachiko watches them circle the houses from her front window; they talk to Suzume’s husband Kei, and Seiji Arata next door, and Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu across the street. When they’re finished, they come up to her porch and ring the doorbell.

One of them is an older man with a kind face. “Afternoon, Mrs. Murasaki,” he says. “May we come in and chat with you for a minute?”

She sits them down on the couch in the living room, and sends Minoru upstairs. 

The officer lays the evidence out for her, patiently, piece by piece. The car was abandoned, unlocked and empty of valuables. Hisao was already known to carry larger than average sums of cash on him. The stories of the other three men all lined up the same: they arrived at the country club together that day, shot nine holes, had a beer or two after, and then left in separate cars. Kei, Seiji, and Hisao all left on their own, and Fuyuhiko had his wife pick him up from the parking lot.

“I know this might be difficult to accept,” the kind-faced officer says, “but you have to understand, ma’am, we’ve worked a lot of these cases. We know what the signs look like. And these signs are pointing at a man who walked away from his life on his own two feet.”

She tells them about the untouched bank account. She tells them about all of her husband’s planned vacations, and missed appointments, and Minoru’s birthday coming up in just a couple of days. She tells them about the carpool, about the missing hour, about how her husband never liked Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu in the first place. 

“Ma’am,” he interrupts, so gently it makes her want to scream, “I promise you, we’ve been very thorough. We haven’t left any possibility alone. Understand?”

They leave and don’t come back.

*

She finds a women’s bank that will let her open her own account. She gets a job as a receptionist at a dental practice in town. It’s enough to pay most of the bills most of the time, or at least to keep the bank account from draining so quickly. Minoru learns to watch himself when he needs to. Sachiko learns the upkeep of the car.

She thinks about it still, though. Even months later, she sits by the window in the living room each night and watches the Kuzuryuus’ rust-red hatchback pull into the driveway with the both of them in it.

(If all four men left the country club at the same time, why is it that the Kuzuryuus arrived back home almost an hour later than the rest?)

She watches Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu squat low in the front yard and pull weeds from the base of their newly-flowering shrubs.

(Where did that missing hour go?)

She watches Peko Kuzuryuu read books on their front porch with a tall glass of ice tea, framed by new rose-colored curtains in the window.

(What did they do to him?)

*

One night, the Kuzuryuus invite her to dinner. She sends Minoru to stay with his grandfather, packs a wide chef’s knife into the pocket of her dress, and goes.

They sit out in the garden; the days are getting longer, and the light is starting to linger enough through suppertime. There are young shrubs planted in a row by the fence. “Roses,” Peko says dreamily. “It’s almost time for them to bloom. We’ve been waiting since autumn. The environment here is just perfect for them, I hope they do well.” 

She serves them fresh salmon and lemonade. It looks and smells lovely, perfect for spring, but Sachiko didn’t come here to eat. She waits until they’ve both started, and then she says, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask the two of you.”

Fuyuhiko doesn’t look up from his dinner. “What’s that?”

The words want to die in her throat. She can feel them shriveling there; it’s an old, familiar sensation. She doesn’t let them.

“The day my husband disappeared.” His eyes lift. “You were gone an hour longer than Kei and Seiji.” Her hands tremble under his stare. She twists them in her skirt to steady them, and finds the flat edge of her knife. “Why?”

They look at each other.

“I was home all day that day,” she says. “I know what time it was. I want to know why.”

Peko sets her silverware down on her plate. “To be honest,” she says, “I’m surprised the police never told you.”

“We had to go back to the store,” Fuyuhiko says. “Twenty minutes into town, twenty minutes at the store, twenty minutes back.” He leans back in his chair and crosses both his arms and his legs, his ankle braced against his knee. “Rounds out to about an hour.”

It’s like ice, dropped down the back of her dress. It pulls the air straight out of her lungs. “What?”

“I didn’t bring a list that day,” Peko explains. “We’d run out of eggs just that morning, and I forgot to pick up more. Fuyuhiko reminded me when I met him at the country club, and we went back to get them.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. It makes sense. The timing lines up exactly how he described it. “That’s not true,” she hears herself say.

“We have the receipts,” Fuyuhiko says. “Or, well, guess it’d be better to say the _police_ have our receipts. They sure seemed satisfied by it.”

He’s smiling. It spreads out flat across his face, like the slimy trail of a snail. The _smug_ son of a _bitch_ —

The rest of it is both too fast and too slow, like the choppy end of a drive-in movie. She stands up. The table hits the ground. There’s fish and ice in the grass. Her hands are shaking so much when she reaches for her knife that they all get tangled in the pleats of her skirt.

Something hits her hard from behind, two sharp blows to her spine that rattle pain up into her skull and snap time back into place. The first is Peko’s elbow, she realizes distantly, and the second is the flat of her hand.

The knife is gone, lost in the grass. Peko twists both of Sachiko’s arms behind her back until they hurt. “I’d advise against trying that again,” she says, quiet, level, and dangerous.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu isn’t smiling anymore.

*

Peko forces her into the shed at the back of the garden; Fuyuhiko takes his glass of bourbon with him and steps around them to hold the door open when she does. They bind her wrists behind her back.

“Just for now,” Peko assures her. “We need to have… a _conversation,_ I think.”

They sit together on a low stack of boxes by the workbench at the back of the shed. They look the same as they always have, only now framed on all sides by wood axes and shovels and pointed stakes.

Sachiko understands that she’s going to die.

Fuyuhiko sighs, and rakes his nails back through his hair. “Really didn’t want to do it this way,” he says. “You seem like a smart woman. Capable. If you’d given it one more day it would’ve gone that much better for you.”

Her heart pounds. She can’t breathe. She thinks about Minoru, and what kind of story the police will tell him when he comes home and finds his mother gone, too.

“We’re sympathetic to the position you’re in, Sachiko,” Peko says. “But we really do need to keep these things tidy. You have to understand that.”

_Tidy._ Sachiko thinks about the new rose bushes in the garden, the neatly-turned soil, the extensive collection of gardening tools. She thinks about the house and its pristine cream carpets, and the comprehensive kitchen, and her husband’s car on the side of the road, left neat for the police to find.

She didn’t have any of the dinner Peko served them; she vomits bile on the ground beside her feet. They both wait until she’s finished.

“We knew the kind of man your husband was,” Peko says, when Sachiko’s gasps have quieted to pants. The past tense is harshly deliberate in her mouth. “Not better than you did, of course, but perhaps better than you think.”

“Kinda man who followed women down the street just to see ‘em scared,” Fuyuhiko says mildly.

“Who strongarmed his friends out of money and then never repaid it.”

“Who knocked around his own son.”

“Who threatened and raped his wife.”

Sachiko picks her head up to look at them; she needs to, has to. They’re both so still, so calm, looking at her like she’s a misbehaving child that’s disappointed them, and it makes her feel cold all over. 

“The world might be willing to tolerate that kind of man,” Peko finishes, her eyes like sharp, burning embers. “We are not.”

Sachiko swallows. Even her own spit tastes acrid now, and burns her throat on the way down. “What does that mean?” she manages.

Fuyuhiko finishes the last of his drink in a single, quick swallow. “It means,” he says, “whatever happened to your husband that day, we’re sure he deserved it.”

She stares him in the face. For months she’d been sure, so sure that she’d begun to think she’d lost touch with reality the way some of the police officers said she had, and to be _right_ — “So you,” she gasps. “You—”

For a moment, he looks startled. His laughter cracks the air; she’s heard him laugh before, and this one is no different from all the rest. It’s exactly the same, and even worse for it.

“Me?” he says. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He reaches over to take Peko’s hand, and they smile moonily at each other, fingers intertwined. “We’re partners, in everything we do. Right, dear?”

Her thumb draws a circle on his wrist. “Of course.”

Hisao used to love her like that. 

Her sob tears up her throat. “He didn’t deserve that,” she gasps. “No one deserves—”

Fuyuhiko sets his glass down on the workbench. The sound it makes against the reclaimed wood is loud, sharp, and final. Sachiko almost swallows her tongue.

“All due respect, ma’am,” he says, “but people deserve a lot of things. All men need to answer for their actions eventually.” He bites the end of his pipe, and sits up to fish in his back pocket. He comes up with a book of matches, and flips it open with his thumb. “Even piece of shit men like your husband.”

“Fuyuhiko,” Peko warns.

“Sorry.” A match leaps to life between his hands. He inhales deeply, and a plume of smoke curls from the sour edges of his smile. “We had words near the end, me and Hisao. Normally I’d prefer to just ignore it, but people like him, they _get under my skin._ You know what I mean?”

He settles back in his seat. His and Peko’s hands curl together again, as natural as the tide.

“That said,” he goes on, “we recognize that we’ve got a part to play here, too.” Beside him, Peko nods deeply. “It’s a shitty play at justice if the innocent are still getting hurt in the end, isn’t it?”

Sachiko’s head aches. Her eyes and nose burn with tears. She sucks in a breath. “You aren’t… going to…”

“No,” he answers sharply, like he’s offended by the very idea of it, like his hands aren’t soaked in blood already. “What kinda people do you fuckin’ take us for?”

“Fuyuhiko,” Peko says again. 

He pulls at the end of his pipe, instead of answering.

“You’re lying,” Sachiko says. She doesn’t know where her voice comes from, except maybe from the thought that it might be the last time she gets to use it. “How could you just let me go? After telling me all- all of this?”

Peko’s brows lift, like the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “Well, that’s simple,” she says, without smiling. “We aren’t afraid of you.” 

Fuyuhiko opens a drawer on the workbench, and plucks a plain white envelope out of it. He hands it to Peko, and she opens it wide enough for Sachiko to see inside: there’s money, stacks of it, all in small bills. Tucked in with the cash are two slips of paper, too far away for Sachiko to read properly.

“Bus tickets,” Peko tells her. “One-way, out west. One for you, and one for your son.”

“It’s an offer,” Fuyuhiko says. “No strings. No threats. You can take all of it, part of it, none of it. ” Peko strokes the inside of his wrist, and he stops to reconsider. “... Well. That was the initial idea, anyway. You’ve made some bad choices today, Ms. Murasaki. Gonna recommend you go all-in on this one.”

“I…” It’s nonsense. Ridiculousness. Except it’s there, in front of her nose, and the only explanation is that they must have planned it in advance. “I don’t understand...”

“We’re reasonable people,” Peko says. “We understand that we can’t hold others responsible for the consequences of their actions without being cognizant of our own. Isn’t that right, dear?”

He kisses the back of her knuckles. “You bet, darling.”

“So.” Peko tucks the flap of the envelope back into the mouth. “We agreed we should do our part to help get you back on your feet.”

She stands. Sachiko flinches, but instead of hitting her, Peko bends to tuck the envelope into the now-empty pocket of Sachiko’s dress. After that, she cuts through the rope around her wrists with a garden spade.

“Just like that?” Sachiko asks.

Fuyuhiko smiles at her. “Like the lady said.” The mouth of his pipe burns when he breathes in. “We’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

*

The bus station is cold, early in the morning. The bus itself is even colder, and smells worse— stagnant and stale with a dozen other people’s body odor. 

Minoru has been trembling all morning. She lays both hands on his shoulders, but he still wriggles away from her.

They board.


End file.
